For You are Music
by AranellAeariel
Summary: A combination of Leroux's original 1911 novel, Yeston & Kopit's 1991 American Musical, and Andrew Lloyd Webber's grand musical. Fire cleanses, and leaves naught but fertile fields in its wake. Following the disaster at the Opera, Christine, now pregnant, must cope, forced to consider her life, believing that the Phantom is dead, but from fire, there are always embers.
1. Chapter 1

It was not the offensive whispers that poisoned her, nor the harsh gawks, or even the echoing snickers. It was the oppressive shadow that hunted her at every sundown, at every moment of sleep she could manage to steal, that truly drove her mad. The alien torso which she had finally reigned in command of frightened her as it looked back at her in the mirror - wild, terrified, and warped.

Fresh names and identities only lasted as long as a flower in the chill of autumn, and were as thin as gauze. Regardless of the name or story that she adopted as truth, what remained was that she was unmarried, nearly a spinster despite her young age, with no means, no friends, and, above all else - she was pregnant.

The first groggy village she fled to was not ignorant to her identity. She was, after all, the very Christine Daaé who had headlined at the Opéra de Paris for only a brief moment, like a firefly in the seasonable summer, before blinkering out and disappearing on the wings of some devastating scandal. It was no difficult task recognizing her, even though her sheath of wandering curls had been trimmed back, a rather unbecoming look for the time and for her age.

It was her belly that gave her a new identity, new persona. It labelled her as an adulteress of sorts, a wicked wench who wormed her way into the beds of innocent men like some kind of succubus. In reality, it was nothing of the sort. It was her foolish, girlish obsession that had grown over the fantasy of a man that she wasn't sure, in retrospect, truly existed.

This was the third time she had moved in these past eight months. She was now swollen with the impending child, and rather exhausted from the constant motion. She reminded herself of the Gypsies that her Papa had told her about in one of his lush stories - feeding from the land, skimming it before floating off again. She longed for a home, one rooted deep in memories that she could lavish in during the milky days of her final breaths. She glanced out of the glazed window, a sudden murmur through her body threatening to shatter her bones and melt her flesh.

She took a painful moment to recall the exact moment in which the peculiar creature which was soon fit to burst from her had been created. She thought of some strange God, knelt dutifully at a great potter's wheel and, as it spun, a hazy, shadowy glow spilled forth like inky mist and infected her like the venom of a snake. She nearly cried aloud as she felt the memory of the fingertips of her dreadful lover across her skin. It had been with the same utterly breathless sensation that she was dragged from her pedestal of projected purity, torn into the mirk of licentiousness. Little pleasure, if she could recall any, was gained by her escapade, but it was his wanton glower that informed her it was for the singular purpose of granting him access to a plane of bliss he would never again be privy to. Perhaps, somewhere in the depths of her heart, she could procure the slightest glimmer of a memory in which the most minute fraction of her soared in ecstasy. For his ruse had had beguiled her enough that the warped visage she could conjure in her mind could very easily have been a true angel her father spoke of, the one whose guidance had led her to the zenith of her brief, albeit promising career.

 _Erik_. What a horrid, dulcet name it was. It was pure, and musical, and tainted with the hideousness of his memory, of his face. The name aroused in her the memory of his voice, and she loathed him for the power he still derived from her. She daren't permit herself to weep again, as she had nearly every day she travelled on the murmuring road, but she could not resist the masochistic ache that pulled at her throat, or the fire that singed her eyes, bringing her to a veil of tears.

 _What a horrible… lovely creature he was_ ….

Erik filled her with dread, a frozen, immobilizing dread, and yet she was brought to her knees by the unbearable light which curved and danced as his voice. It was seductive to her, and she was grossly infatuated with it, and yet she loathed him.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: I do not own Phantom: An American Musical by Yeston and Kopit, Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux, or Phantom of the Opera: The Musical by Andrew Lloyd Webber, nor do I own any of its respective characters. Thank you for the reviews and suggestions, I'm always very eager to hear what you have to say. Thank you!

* * *

Hunger. It was always hunger. A primal sort of hunger that dogged her as she consumed her shy portions of bread and sucked down her measly drink with what she could scarcely call a meal. It was hunger alone that drove her from the protection of the walls of her hut, like an animal driven to hunt. She acted only on need, now.

A screeching, searing, biting agony wracked her, only a fingertip's touch above the newest addition to her body. It had become frightfully cumbersome, and she found that, if the hunger were not so adamant, so burningly urgent, she would be content to merely reside within the shelter of her bed for the entirety of the day. A pathetic noise burbled from her lips as she heaved herself from the quaint chair that seemed to creak in exaltation as she removed her devastating weight from it.

She found no camaraderie in the nearby village. Ansouis was no different from the other towns, save for the sheer constricting size. Her home was a shanty less than a half mile's walk from the burg, although the distance seemed far more generous as she braved the murmurs that whipped at her as wind would in a summer's storm. Her form was a book from which they read rather crudely adultery, shame, a woman with no direction or dignity, and she could do little more than turn her petite face towards the sun, towards her father in the pearlescent heavens above. She should be rather accustomed to it by now, shouldn't she? For she had endured days that blended into weeks and months, nine of them, if she had counted correctly.

Her feet, swollen and crying for respite, at last led her to the core of the town, which, even on its busiest market days, was little more than the babbling of a faint brook. People trickled languidly from warmth of the boulangeries and from the affable clutter of the butcher's. People, like fat bumblebees, flitted ignorant of troubles from one open-air booth to another, clutching fresh harvest as one would a child. She could not deny that she was satisfied hearing the hum of life outside of her own, for her own silence often screamed so loud she could hardly think. She allowed herself a moment to greedily consume the symphony of life, idle prattle of women far too old to be squawking as they were, the high ringing of the laugh of two children, chasing tailcoats and tumbling about, enveloped in their own youth and the magic of mischief, and the chiming of francs as they passed hands over a basket's worth of carrots or potatoes.

Bread. Bread was all she needed. Perhaps some celery root, if she had a few coins to spare. She counted once, twice, three times, what she could afford with her laughable funds. She knew it was imperative to find some sort of work, something to keep her head above water, although her options dwindled hopelessly as her abdomen swelled like a corpse in the sun. Once the child was born, she knew it would require her full attention, for who could she call upon to watch it for her? She could claim no member of the town as anything more than a stranger with a name, if even that friendly of a title. She was alone in this village, and, moreover, alone in this life, with only the promise of a child who could not speak for a long while to comfort her.

Perhaps, she thought bitterly, the birth of the child would be in solitude, and perhaps, she continued, her heart smoldering in a masochistic fire, she and the child would not survive the endeavor. Caustic thoughts as such had begun appearing at an alarming frequency, and she could do little but cower in their shadow.

She shook her head and crossed herself with a quick huff, dismissing the thought which overcame her as shadows chase away any speck of daylight. She clutched her cloak to her breast, furrowing her brows against the wicked hiss of autumn. Her destination was the boulangerie, from which she could feel the inviting breath of the hearths which hosted generous loaves of _boule_ and _fougasse_ , as well as the _pain_ _d'Epi_ which enticed her mercilessly.

A groan threatened to part from her lips as she surveyed the rather intimidating line before her. Agony clamped down on her calves, which she anticipated would buckle beneath her should she continue to stand for much longer.

Time could only have moved any slower if it had stopped entirely. Christine, silent in her anguish, stood immobile as other patrons chatted with the baker, laughing over foolish stories, arranging times in which they could have the very same conversation. A great irritation welled inside of her, and, crashing her teeth together, she took a silent oath of loathing for those who lived so simply, so free from demons who cried and howled in the night. What did they know of the jeers on the street which branded her with the hot irons of their eyes? What did they know of the mumbling conviction that sentenced her to life in solace, within a prison of her own making? She could hear each and every syllable tear at her chest, each breathy giggle sink its claws into her legs, and each vowel roared its contention. In the blazing sluggishness of time, she could do little but force herself unto a platform upon which she could think of memories that would force time forward.

If time remained so stagnant, she pondered, perhaps I myself can make it move.

The first few notes of the melody were strained, as it was apparent lack of usage had eroded the quality of her voice. But that mattered little. After a moment, after the ponderous heftiness of time had been divested, she knew the sound would ascend high above her, above the slanted, cockeyed roofs of the town, above all of France, just as it had so long ago.

 _"Ah, je ris"_ , feeling as if each word weighed as much as her elephantine body did, _"de me voir si belle en ce miroir!"_ The notes thrummed with life as they danced from her throat, their golden aura winding around her body as fluid as a ribbon in the breeze.

After only a few bars, she noted with a scorching thrill, several heads had turned, all attempting in vain that was so wholly amusing she stifled her own laughter, to locate the origin of the tone, so clear it could only be a bell, or silk filling the air.

 _"Ah, je ris, de me voir si belle en ce miroir!"_ The phrase looped once again, only this time, with a certainty that she had boasted an unwelcomed eternity prior to this. _"Est-ce toi, Marguerite, est-ce toi?"_

One body, whose voice ricocheted from every crevice of the bakery, eliciting a cry of confusion. It seethed in several tongues, in varying tones, in a cacophony that crescendoed with each line. The flustered buzz informed her that their ears were virgin to the melodies that hung about the walls of the Opéra.

 _"Réponds-moi, réponds-moi!"_ Her beckoning soprano beseeched not Marguerite, and certainly not the hapless customers of the local bake shoppe, but something that had simply vanished from her life, as flame in the clutches of spring's tears. _"Réponds, réponds, réponds vite!"_

No longer did she allow the sound to be bridled, choked by her own apprehension. Her eyes tugged skyward, and her jaw loosened, releasing the twinge of tension that had begun to climb to an alarming rate. _Watch your breathing, now, Christine. Your shoulders are far too high to produce as decent of a sound as I know you may create_. The instruction of her Maestro swirled through her mind, shredding any semblance of serenity she had managed to instill in herself. It was no longer about passing time, but about firmly planting her feet. She could bear no longer to be an adulteress in alien villages, in towns which tutted and spit as she stumbled by, she was Christine Daaé, of the Opéra de Paris, the prodigy who was plucked from the light of the stage and thrust into an encompassing darkness.

 _"Non! Non ce n'est plus toi! Non, non! ce n'est plus ton visage!"_ Where did the lyrics, which burst from her tongue in a shower of radiant sound end, and the own reflection of her life begin? For she was Marguerite, at least for the briefest of moments. She was not the woman she knew herself to be. In the mirror, she was a frightened girl, burgeoning with child, although the stark difference that dangled Marguerite so far above her was that she was not overwhelmed with a newly discovered joy, and she doubted such a feeling would ever grace her again.

"Mon Dieu, Marceau," a woman clung to the shirtsleeve of her husband, her humble dressings an artistic contrast to his own, "whose is that voice?" The map of age which littered her cheeks and eyes dictated she had perhaps seen more than four decades.

"Who is that singing?" A heady voice split through the unwitting audience. The proprietor, the baker himself, barked out his inquiry, and silence ensnared the boisterous customers.

 _"Ah, s'i-"_ her coruscant voice ceased altogether, leaving her a mere mortal once again. After a beat in which her heart thundered in her ears, she stepped forwards.

"It was I, sir," she admitted promptly, her eyes ascertaining adoration and bemusement on the face of every person in the shop. Her repost came rather harried, a frailty in her tone juxtaposing the unencumbered clarion of her song.

"You, mademoiselle?" He scoffed incredulously, assessing her rather leadenly. "Come here," he commanded, his finger crooked in a manner she had recalled seeing the very first time song had poured out of her for the shiny-faced managers of the Opéra.

"I'm sorry for disrupting, sir, I simply had to pass the time, I'm well on my way with child, an-" Her asseveration was ceased only by the crooked finger morphing into an open palm, halting her. Her expression was wrought with terror, as she feared she would be unwelcomed in the only establishment in which she could afford the wares.

"You have a lovely voice, woman." He asserted firmly. Clucks of agreement and praise bloomed as he gazed out into the store, where the townsfolk had congealed into tittering crowds. "When I was a boy, my mother took me to the Opéra de Paris. I thought a voice as golden could never be heard again, but you have proven me wrong. What is your name?"

Her name? Which name? The false name she had been forced to adopt, to carry like a badge of dishonesty? Or her real name, which she had only a moment ago conceded to be her only identity. Now, in the face of confrontation, she was forced to decide.

"Christine. Christine Daaé, monsieur." She confided aloud, a sick snake of remorse winding its way down her spine. Had she made a rather egregious error? Or was she far enough from Paris that her identity was simply a name?

"I have heard your name, child!" A man bellowed from the back of a minute crowd. "The soprano from the Palais Garnier!"

"Is that why you fled?" A woman interrogated in a grating voice, so high it made her head reel. Her rotund fingers jabbed towards her stomach, fleshy and portly, heralding the news of her pregnancy.

"N-no, madame, I..." So many voiced whirled around her, messy, disorganized, haphazard, all craving her conference. She could scarcely think anything sensible, any coherent string of ideas, as she was bombarded by a discordant suite of shouts. Stones collided with her chest, a barrage of invisible assailants attacked her as she made shallow attempts to steal breath. Gasps only animals could possibly emit arose from the depths of her lungs, which wailed in yearning for air to fill them. Murky ink spilled in her vision, blotting the painting of life before her.

She could narrowly admit to feeling herself toppling over, as would a mule under a tremendous weight. Regardless, it was an irrefutable connection with the ground when she had finally landed, although she could most confidently recall a flash of eternity in which she was entirely weightless. What was the twinge of pain which gripped her, unrelenting, swelling, budding within her, igniting a fire so fierce she feared no cure, save for death itself, could quell it? What were the daggers which mangled her from the inside out, decimating her? What great puppeteer fidgeted with invisible strings, jerking the proper mechanic for pain, and then brief respite?

Admittedly, very few maternal instincts had dominated her actions and ambitions. She could say there was a want for motherly affections towards the parasite which fed from her happiness alone, although she could not blame it for its creation, for who is it that pleads for birth? Until that very instant in which she was incapacitated by sheer excruciating pain, she could not wholeheartedly confess to possessing a hint of fondness for the infant. Until that very instant. If her last wheezing pant of breath were a franc, she would willingly spend it on what words she fought diligently to profess.

"My baby!" She wept through dry tears, her sight grappling for any one image which did not overwhelm her, for a face to which she could impose her request. "Please, oh Lord, please!"

Words flew about her, demands, questions, prayers, all lost, drowning in the black swamp which had infected her mind. Demands of rags and hot water were faintly detected, and for the room to be cleared, although she doubted that any member of the trifling town would stand to not be present for something as conversationally stimulating as such.

Oh, how hot it was! A sweltering blaze beat against her flesh, and sweat shed from her as snow melts in the chaste kiss of the sun. Time itself had been incinerated, leaving nothing but the accelerando of her heart, which beat as a broken metronome, confused, as dazed as she. Had it been the end of her life? Had even a moment passed?

Nothing remained. Nothing. Not time, not space, not her own body, except for the force which dared to tear the nothingness in two, once, twice, a third time, until it finally began to fray the edges of the vacuum, shaving it with a knife of relucent white, demanding of her to do all she could to push it away.

And so she did, rewarded with only the sound of a cry.


End file.
